


What The Universe Wants

by Vexfulfolly



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Aphasia, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/ Comfort, F/M, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, LOTS of implied relationships, Leo Fitz-centric, Minor Injuries, Most of the Relationships are friendships, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Pining, Welcome to my TED talk on anti-heroes and anti-villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-18 12:16:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexfulfolly/pseuds/Vexfulfolly
Summary: It was dark. It was just so dark. And cold too, couldn’t forget the cold.He couldn’t remember where he was. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t move.The boy was completely and utterly trapped, and the only thing he could think of— the one thought trapped in his starving brain— was that he hoped Gemma was okay.





	1. Reset

**Author's Note:**

> This will hopefully fill some of the gaps between storylines, and maybe at some point in the future take on its own. This particular chapter, and following chapters will address what happened to Fitz in between S1 E22, and S2 E1.

_It was dark. It was just so dark. And cold too, couldn’t forget the cold. Every inch of his body was being weighed down by the chill, with the exception being his chest. The only light in the soul crushing darkness sparked from the flames in his chest, their fingers growing hotter and stronger with each passing second. He couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing, all his brain registered was a slight tug upward— but that offered little solace. For some reason he couldn’t take a deep breath, he couldn’t smell or taste the air around him. His mind began to wander towards questions he didn’t have the answers to, when the heat in his chest started to become unbearable. It had gone from a minor inconvenience, to a now excruciating pain. With sluggish, uncoordinated movements the boy clawed at his chest, at his neck, at his ribs— anything to make it stop. When he cried out it made no noise. There was no one to hear him scream. He was alone. Right as the pain became too much it all subsided. The persistent ebb of cold crawled up his legs and kissed his arms, quelling the flames until their tongues died out._

_And then it was calm. He was still rising ever so slowly, but he didn’t hurt anymore. It was perfect. He couldn’t feel anything anymore. All it was, was dark._

_Just as the man was ready to give in to the soothing environment, a dull humming piqued his interest. It was like a rhythmic thrum that sounded just out of reach, that maybe if he opened the window he’d hear it better. The sound was close, but muffled. It grew in intensity until he felt like it was right upon him— but he still saw nothing but darkness. The hum was then joined by something even louder. “Help!” She screamed. The voice was raw, staggered between gasps for air and heart-wrenchingly desperate. He wanted to reach out, to offer help, to right whatever was wrong, but he was frozen. The cold hadn’t stopped at his chest, in fact it was still crawling. It had reached his neck. The icy sensation was prickling the lobes of his ears and expanding across his cheeks when vertigo gripped him. The screaming had stopped, but it was replaced by weeping and screaming. The humming was deafening, but he would’ve listened to anything to hide the sounds of the her tears. But just like the heat did, the sounds around him started to mix together and dull until he was gripped by sleep._

 

————

 

When the man finally grasped consciousness, he didn’t feel the sheets underhand, he didn’t hear the beeping of the machines, nor did he see the bright fluorescent lights— all he felt was fear. It was hot and oily, filling his stomach and infecting his guts. Then the world came crashing down on top of him. His heart was hammering out of his chest, there was something lodged down his throat, his left arm was strapped to his body and casted— and god— everything hurt. The light bombarded his eyes to the point where tears blurred his vision.

The fear that wracked his body never subsided, it only grew with each waking moment. The longer he had to come to his senses, the more he started to remember.

Ward. That’s what he remembered. He was seized by some goons when he set off the AED, along with Gemma. They started taking the duo away when they made a break for it, but that’s all that was coming to him. The last thing he remembered was running through the halls of the Bus, grappling for any escape.

They must have caught him—knocked him out— because he couldn’t recall anything after that. If he was still alive, they needed him for something. Garret even said they would use him, regardless of how cooperative he was. He had to escape. In a moments notice he had pulled the intibater from his throat, and began removing the IV’s in his arms. Despite the protests of the machines around him and the taste of metal on his tongue, the boy had to act fast. The second he was freed from the bed, with his medical gown drawn tight across his back, he shot a final glance around the room. The symphony of mechanical warnings was only growing louder, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like footsteps were approaching. What could he do? What were his options? No windows, no way he was getting out the door, couldn’t hide— so that left him with one choice: fight. Luckily for him, a tray of food sat on one of the bedside tables and with a fleeting sense of confidence, he grabbed it with both hands. He didn’t care about its contents and hardly even noticed as everything crashed on the floor. Shoes were most certainly closing in on his door, and so he did what the cortisol, adrenaline, and glucose in his bloodstream told him to. He readied himself just outside the doorway, so when the first assailant entered, he’d get a clean hit.

That’s exactly what happened too. The door burst open, a doctor of some sort sprinting through. The man wound up, and let the tray fly, the metal making a nasty ringing sound as it made contact with bone. The figure slumped over, knocked out and no longer a threat. However, he didn’t have time to worry about bruised occipital bones or hairline fractures in jaws, he simply had to keep moving. A second figure appeared in the doorway and before he could understand the situation, he too was hit with the metal. It wasn’t enough to render them unconscious, like the first, but it was enough to get them out of his way. A sense of freedom flooded his system as he took a quick, yet tentative step through the door. When he stepped into to the hallway he noticed no one waiting for him— no guards, no doctors, no nurses, no visitors— it was absolutely empty. That seemed wrong. If he was supposed to be some Hydra asset, some, some sort of prisoner, wouldn’t there be more surveillance? More man power? One thing did pique his interest however, a small plaque on the wall had a name on it: Fitz. So that was his name.

In awe he stared at the wall. It was as if a piece of the puzzle was being unveiled. Of course he knew he had a name, everyone loved it and they said it all the time, but he just couldn’t place it until now. The food tray slipped from his fingers, clattering against the metal floor. Fitz’ right hand reached up and touched the lettering with such care that it could have been his child. Entranced by the phenomenon he was experiencing, he didn’t hear the soft, more composed steps trailing down the hallway. His hand immediately went to his head, at first rubbing his brow, then his temples, and ultimately ending up stuck in his hair. His mouth was left open, harsh breaths coming in and out as he tried to process everything.

For once, Fitz was at a loss for words. He tried to push it out, anything out, but he couldn’t find the words to do it. A phrase would come to mind but it’d be wrong, and he’d move on, but nothing was right. Every word was on the end of his tongue, just waiting to be remembered. “W-wh… wha-wha— what?” It was a soft, yet pained question, poised to no one in particular. This was wrong, all horribly, terribly, freakishly wrong. As panic wracked his body, he became even more frantic. The arm that was casted did nothing to help him, it only hurt more as his hand shook within the mold. Fitz’ vision was blurred from the tears that threatened to spill. This was something he couldn’t fix, and the worst part of it all was that he felt like he was forgetting something. There was a pit in his chest, but words weren’t supposed to fill it. He just felt… empty.

“Morning sleeping beauty,” a voice called out. It had a warm, slightly higher tone, and a mildly worried trill. “You’ve been out for a couple of days, man, but… it looks like you’re doing just fine.” As the man spoke to Fitz’ back, he could see his face in his mind, but he couldn’t remember a name. Of course, he’d try anyway.

“T-T-Tr…Tri… Trip?”

It felt like seconds had passed before the scientist could finally speak the name, but in reality, it was closer to minutes. Slowly, he turned in his heel, just enough to finally glimpse at the figure before him. Trip was standing a couple yards away, his stance more defensive than Fitz would have expected. “Who? No, n-no, no. Where… am I?”

This question, however, seemed to surprise Trip, seeing as his expression softened. “Fitz, don’t you recognize the Bus?”

As soon as the words left Trip’s lips he couldn’t help but gape— of course he was in the Bus. This only brought on another bout of panic; vertigo gripped him and it felt like his lungs were crawling up his throat. The world around him was suddenly far less frightening and cold, and just a bit more familiar, but the fact that he couldn’t recognize that, scared him more than anything. With something akin to embarrassment Fitz turned his back on Trip, favoring the wall instead, to try and get his words right. Syllables that meant nothing and absolutely didn’t go together were whispered on his lips, his free hand back in his hair, pulling on locks every time he was wrong. It didn’t look good to say the least.

“Are you okay? What’s all over your face? You should lay down again, okay? I’ll get another medic and th—“

“ _No._ ”

The response was instantaneous and sharp, sharper than anything Trip had ever heard the boy say. Frankly, it was the first words he’d said that seemed intentional. When Fitz turned towards his friend again, his entire appearance could be seen. Blood stained his lips and shinned in the corners of his lips, wide sunken-in irises of blue flickered across the surroundings, scratches pockmarked his neck and face, and a primal air composed him. It didn’t take a genius to tell that Fitz was not in the right state of mind and despite his better judgement, Trip was about to play on it.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to go back,” he started, as Fitz seemed to relax for a moment. “I’ll just call the team down. They’ll be so happy to see that you’re awake.” And much like the first time Fitz spoke, the answer came out in short bursts over a long period of time.

“G-Gemma, and, and, and Skye? May and… a-…” he trailed off, his gentle expression growing angry. Again, he turned his back to Trip, snapping his fingers in attempts to verbalize the last name. When it dawned on him, he said it out loud. “Coulson too?”

“You know it.”

Before Fitz could even make a move, a single bullet was fired at his back. As the world grew hazy and he dropped to his knees, the icer bullet released the last of its dendrotoxin, and Fitz fell right back asleep. His limp body was laying halfway up against the wall, his eyes open, and his cheeks tracked with tears. There was something inside him that was broken. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t speak. Who was he without either of those things? It was damn near the most depressing things Antoine had ever seen— the way Fitz’ body folded into itself. Even unconscious, he looked scared  

Two strong arms picked him up and brought him back to the hospital bed, placing him down as gently as they could, and deciding not to fiddle with any of the drugs and machines. He pulled out a walkie-talkie instead. “Hey, this is Trip. Fitz is awake and… we’ve got possibly two injured nurses. He’s—there’s something wrong.”


	2. Holes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last little installment of this part in Fitz’ recovery, but fret not! This won’t be the last thing I write for Fitzsimmons and their adventures. Also, if you have an aversion to bruises or blood, you may want to skip the later portion of this chapter. It’s not described fully, but it’s most certainly mentioned. Enjoy!

When someone dies, the last sense they lose is their hearing. Though they may be entirely unresponsive, their brain still fires off the necessary charges to make sense of random phonetics that make language. Soldiers who lose their life listen to the rhythmic sound of machine guns and screams of their comrades. Grandmothers listen to the stifled tears of their children as they lay in their hospital beds. Hearing is the last sense to go when you die, but it’s also the first you get when you wake up. So as Leopold Fitz began to regain consciousness, yet again, he heard the hushed voices of those around him.

_“When he decannulated himself he probably irritated his esophagus—“_

_“No! It was different! He was out of it. The things he was saying were all messed up.”_

_“At least we know where the blood came from.”_

_“Can you argue somewhere else? You’re gonna wake him up.”_

_“Speaking of waking him up, what a grand idea you had, shooting him!”_

As the familiar voices seemed to swirl around his head, Leo finally seemed to gain his bearings. Much less forced than last time, the boy’s eyes opened. They strained against the bright light, and quickly blinked away the spots it left in his vision. He hadn’t so much as moved before he felt warm hands snake into one of his own. Silence fell over the room as he slowly but surely tried to look around. The boy couldn’t see any of the figures in the room clearly, except for the girl to his side, who (despite being blurry) still looked familiar. In order to get a better look, the boy tried to prop himself up, to sit up— but he couldn’t. His hands were latched to the rails of his gurney, as were his feet, and a strap ran across his mid-section, effectively keeping him in place. Despite the comfort of company, the confinement was too shocking. Too reminiscent of being trapped. And so he did the first logical thing: he pulled against them.

His actions weren’t nearly as frantic as the first time he woke, but the sharp clang of metal on metal seemed to wake the world from its daze. “Is this… is this, uh, is this needed?”

It seemed like words would serve him better in this situation, after all, he didn’t have that sense of panic anymore so he was perfectly fine to calmly sort this out. That is, if he could actually talk. A bright voice interrupted his thoughts as the hand clasped around his own was quickly released. “Oh, of course Fitz! I didn’t even think these were necessary in the first place.” The British accent was a dead giveaway, had her attitude not been enough; it was Gemma. Her nimble fingers quickly worked in codes onto the cuffs around his wrist, and then moved to his ankles.

“It’s nice to have you back,” Skye added as she unclasped the buckle running across his chest. The moment he was free of his restraints he instantly curled in on himself by pulling in his arms and legs, and pressing himself into the back of his bed. With everyone’s faces now in view he could watch the disappointment leech into their expressions. He just needed space, that was all. With the cloud of confusion hanging heavy around his head, and the highly distracting elements surrounding him, he found it hard to relax. The lights were too bright, the monitors were too loud, everyone was too close. Speaking of, Jemma and Skye were on either side of him, with May and Coulson at his feet— leaving Trip standing farthest from him (and closest to the door).

“Thanks,” Fitz said quickly, hoping that if he squeezed out the word it’d be more recognizable. And so for a moment, it was quiet. No one said a word and no one dared breathe too loud, until May cleared her throat. She pointed her gaze towards his side and when he followed it, it lead to Simmons. The sudden change in atmosphere seemed like enough to get her talking because once she started, it didn’t seem she would stop. “Well, ah, there’s no simple way to put this so, uh— I, as well as some actual doctors reviewed your charts and the security footage from yesterday, and we’ve come to a diagnosis.” The rest of the room seemed to melt away as Fitz’ limited focus honed in on the scientist. She looked uncomfortable to say the least, and after taking a breath and looking down, she met his eyes with watery ones.

“You’ve got brain damage, Fitz.”

What Simmons said afterword was drowned out and muffled compared to the thoughts in his head. The boy’s hands instantly covered his face, as his elbows rested on his knees while he tried—desperately— to cling to calmness. Clips of memories rolled behind his eyelids: from EKG’s, to kisses, to falling, to broken bones— all of it was seemingly coming back.

“Your front, left hemisphere, specifically Broca’s area, was severely damaged. And seeing as you… you were seemingly able bodied yesterday, the effects only resulted in expressive aphasia. Hopefully not non-fluent variant of primary progressive aphasia, but only time will tell.”

_In one flash, Fitz remembered the shock on Simmon’s face when Ward slammed on the ejection button. He could hear the screams ripping through her throat as she called out to him, begging him not to do this. But it had already been done. The absolute horror on her features never subsided, even as he forced her body against the wall and began lacing her with protective straps. Weightlessness surrounded them as they plummeted towards the sea. He managed to get himself mostly secured, save for his upper body, when they made contact with the water’s surface. The last thing he saw was Gemma’s face in a mask of pure fear, before he lost consciousness._

“However, the hypoxia that you suffered from stunted the immediate repair of your broken arm, meaning that a full recovery is unlikely. You may suffer from motor issues ranging from poor hand-eye coordination to total paralysis.”

_Fitz rose to consciousness mere seconds later and frankly, he didn’t even realize he blacked out. Water sloshed outside the window while the boy unbuckled himself. Luckily, Simmons was still sleeping because the yelp that he uttered when he moved his left arm was embarrassing enough on its own— he didn’t need his love knowing too. Any type of jostling or movement of his arm was agony, but hey, at least it wasn’t a compound fracture. Fitz knew those well enough to know that he’d likely be unable to fix it (or even look at it). It took quite a bit of effort to fully dislodge himself, and by the time he did, they were steadily sinking. He couldn’t calculate their depth until they actually reached the bottom, but he was fairly sure it was going to be a while. It was getting increasingly dark in their watery prison and the emergency lights had yet to activate, leaving the poor boy to navigate in the murky light. Now freed of his restraints he puttered around the small cube in search of medical supplies, and once he found them, he was in for a world of pain. Fitz’ head was pounding, and according to the wall, he was bleeding too. He himself had a laundry list of things to assess, and that was counting out Simmons, whose chest expanded gently with each breath. The sight of her being damaged in any way brought a tightness in his chest— the kind that made it hard to breathe. He wanted to dry heave, he wanted to scream. Maybe the shock was wearing off and panic was setting in. Or maybe he was just freaking out._

“Fitz? Fitz? What’s wrong?“

Then all at once he was back in the bed. The heart monitor was screaming as his pulse spiked, but just as soon as it started, it stopped. Gemma’s smooth voice was there to talk him down, to calm him. Even in a situation like this she was his pillar. Fitz was still curled up on the bed when she started speaking again, and he had no intentions of leaving. “Talk to us, please,” she tried. “We’re here for you.” As she spoke, she gently laid her hand on his shoulder. Her apprehension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but then again, if Fitz just looked up, he’d see that it was true for everyone else too.

From deep inside his bundle of limbs his voice could be heard, “Um, y-you… could you, um— leave? Yeah. Leave.” This caused all warmth in the air to freeze over as the sound of footsteps (undoubtedly Trip’s) departed the room. It took at least a minute before everyone had gone. Skye left with tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, May left silently but not devoid of hesitation, and Coulson offered a few encouraging words (“Stay strong”) before departing. But Gemma— Simmons— never left. She stayed perched at his bedside, her hand still resting on his shoulder. The silence this time around wasn’t painfully uncomfortable like all the others were, it was respectful. Neither wanted to speak, and both were fine with silence. Seconds turned to minutes, turned to hours, turned to eternities. Leo had no real grasp on time since he drowned, leaving him absolutely clueless to how much time had passed since he retreated. A nurse had come by with either lunch or supper, only to be waved away. The daylight visible from his window had diminished, and his joints ached from holding the position.

As Fitz avoided thinking about reality his mind wandered to what Simmons was thinking about. He wondered what she thought of him: did she think he was weak? Did she think that his profession of feelings was only conditional? Did she love him back? Taking into consideration he rarely knew what he was thinking, taking a guess would be absolutely futile. But when Simmons began to move and pull her hand from his form, he hadn’t a doubt in mind. Fitz moved on autopilot: as the tips of Gemma’s fingers left his body, his hand reached out and latched on. With his face now exposed and his eyes meeting hers, they could finally share a personal moment.

Gemma’s eyes were puffy and bloodshot, as if she hadn’t slept, and her entire demeanor screamed guilt. The button-up shirt she wore was rumpled and lived in, completely missing her signature sport coat. Her usually precious lips were pressed into a thin line and quite obviously chapped and split. Her hair lay flat around her face, the absence of a ponytail only because of the healing scabs on her hairline. He remembered pressing napkins to her forehead and propping her up to avoid any unnecessary bleeding. She looked like hell warmed over, but Fitz couldn’t have been much better.

He had yet to see himself in a mirror, but he could just feel that he looked bad. With the girl’s hand still clasped within his own, he tried talking to her free of shame. “C-Can I see a… a…” he tried. She wasn’t understanding him until he started gesturing with his casted hand: a flat surface that he looked in to.

“A mirror?” She said quietly.

“Yes.” His face must’ve lit up because for the first time since he woke, Gemma smiled.

“Of course. You just have to be alright with going through the hallway.” With a curt nod he unfurled himself and scooted off of the gurney. When he finally rose to his feet he stumbled, only to have Gemma once again steady him. Fitz mumbled an apology as his heart hammered in his chest. The two of them hadn’t been this close since Fitz detonated the AED, well, at least neither of them were crying or in mortal danger. As soon as he was steady he pulled back in on himself again, distancing himself as far from Gemma as possible, all the while still clutching her hand. He kept his eyes forward as they left the room and walked the halls, but he could feel her perplexed gaze on his temple. Nonetheless, they arrived at one of the med-bay restrooms and using her free hand Simmons opened the door. Automatically the lights flickered on and Fitz stepped towards the mirror, only to stop midway.

By now his eyes were thoroughly adjusted and he was seeing clearly, but what he saw didn’t make sense. Trailing his neck and along the sides of his face were raised, red lines, most commonly left after being scratched by fingernails. When his eyes fell to his hands, the nails were ripped and short— clearly his own doing. Dark bruising stretched across the right side of his head, like a sweatband, complete with petechia stretching into his eye. The sclera was a pinkish color because of the popped vessels and head trauma, the vessels themselves still bright red. Aside from his injuries, Fitz had grown himself a bit of a beard, or more accurately, he hadn’t shaved religiously for nearly a week. His normally slicked back hair was left to curl at its own leisure, giving him patches of uneven ringlets. Finally getting to look at himself and see the damage firsthand really convinced him that this was real. Up until now Fitz hadn’t really believed any of this was truly happening. He thought that Gemma was overthinking everything— that she was just overreacting like always, and in a few days he’d be fine. But that wasn’t true. It didn’t seem like it.

Before Leo could really register the shaky breaths he was taking or the swaying of his knees, Simmons had already placed her arm under his shoulders for support. She was always so perceptive, knowing just when to swoop in and help. “Oh, Fitz, you don’t look that bad,” she said softly, her usual trill now seeping into her voice. “You look good for someone who dropped ninety feet, sank to the bottom of the ocean, drowned, and got iced. Frankly, I’d say above average.” Gemma always knew what to say to rekindle his spirits, if not raise them. But the tears in the boy’s eyes said otherwise.

“Gemma… I’m… there’s something wrong w-with m-me.” Fitz choked on the words to prevent himself from sobbing right then and there. The tips of his ears were red hot, and their heat was steadily seeping into the rest of his face in blotchy segments. As the pit in his stomach grew tighter and tighter, his face contorted into a mask of pure shock and fear. Seeing no potential response to his utter heartbreak, Simmons pulled him into a hug.

Her arms effortlessly wrapped around his waist as she buried her face in his chest. “No, no. You’re just different now, and there’s nothing wrong with that,” she promised. Instead of thanking her, all Fitz could do was drape his arms over her shoulders and weep. Hot, fat tears trailed down his cheeks as his chest heaved silently. Uneven, shuddered breaths were the only sound either of them made, save for a whimper or two from Fitz. His breakdown wasn’t short lived, but it was silent. The two of them merely hugged each other for the remainder of the night, sometime later sitting down together, and even later falling asleep. When Leo woke up he was alone. The metal beside him on the floor had grown cold and his entire body felt stiff, but at least he had some semblance of composure. Despite his puffy eyes and sore nose, when he looked in the mirror he couldn’t help but feel like he looked a little better than the night before. Slowly but surely he made his way back to his room, crawled into his bed, and decided to get some rest by his own volition.

 

————

 

When Gemma walked into Coulson’s office she expected it to be empty, not livened with lights and whiskey. The director’s rather surprised form seemed to sit a bit straighter in his seat, though he didn’t speak. “Sir,” Simmons said slowly. “Give me a week with Fitz, and if after that I can’t fix him, I don’t think anyone can. At that point I’ll only be holding him back. Promise me that you’ll step in if it comes to that.” Her demands were more akin pleads, but coming from her, they had the same effect.

“Okay,” Coulson said lightly, not willing to push farther. “But before you go, humor me.” From under his desk he pulled another glass, set it on the table and filled it. Simmons replied with nothing but a dry laugh before pulling up a chair. When she grabbed the glass and took a sniff, Coulson picked up his glass and together they made a toast. The liquor was downed in one sip by both of them, and soon after, they both retired for the night. As the bunks called their names and blankets whispered comforts, their toast rang clearly through their minds.

“To recovery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was just a short little thing without a plot. If you guys want more (!!!) I’d be happy to add on or continue this story, but for now I think it’ll stay like this. I just really connected with Fitz during this arch because we’re aphasia buddies and I always wished we got to see how he reacted after waking up/ getting the news.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my first pieces, so any and all critiques, comments, questions, suggestions, and rants are appreciated! Kudos as well! I thank you for taking the time to read to read, and (hopefully) enjoy this.


End file.
